Eight
Keira had been assigned a different bedroom in the hotel. The new balcony extended the length of its outside wall and was wide enough to accommodate a double lounger, and a small glass table. She perched on the edge of the lounger holding a glass of cola in one hand, a roll-up in the other, and checked her watch. Two hours had passed since she’d taken the last lot of painkillers and her head was starting to hurt again. The label read Two to be taken every four hours, but Keira had already decided she couldn’t wait that long. Cupping her hand, she tipped out another couple of pills from the bottle, opened her mouth as far as the swelling would allow and swallowed them down.
The view of the sea was restricted by the quoined corners of the hotel’s exterior, but she could still see a section of the crowded beach and a short strip of boardwalk.
In the last hour, Keira had phoned the airline to rebook her return flight, contacted the British Embassy in Tirana, called her secretary, Katy, and extended the rental on the car. The flights out were mostly full, but she’d managed to secure a seat for early Sunday morning. It was twice what she’d paid for the original round-trip ticket, but Keira didn’t care; she needed to get back.
The hotel management were convinced her attacker must have climbed onto the balcony and entered her room from there, but whoever it was would have been easily spotted. To climb up from the patio area or drop down from the room above would have left them too exposed. The only safe way in was along the hotel corridor and in through the door and the only way they could have done that, thought Keira, was with a key.
As she drew down some smoke from the roll-up Keira noticed a figure standing on the boardwalk with a phone clamped to his ear. He was looking up at the hotel, his face turned to the side, making it difficult to pick out any features, but there was no hiding the broad shoulders and thick neck squeezed into the Puerto Rican peg-pant suit.
Fat-Joe Jesus.
Keira followed his line of sight and realised he was staring up at her old room, as if waiting for her to appear on the balcony.
Keira stood too quickly and thought for a moment she was going to faint. When the dizzy spell had passed she headed out into the corridor and down the fire escape until she reached the ground floor. A quick left at the bottom of the stairs, past the reception desk and she was out at the pool area. On the first morning, before her swim, she’d noticed a gate at the bottom of a set of wooden steps that provided access for the hotel guests to the beach. As she made her way between the tables set for lunch she scooped a steak knife from a place setting in front of a couple who had just taken their seats, mumbling, ‘I’ll bring you a fresh one.’
With the handle of the knife held loosely in her right hand and the blade concealed by the sleeve of her shirt, Keira disappeared out onto the crowded boardwalk.
A steady stream of holidaymakers filed past as she tried to orientate herself. The steps leading down from the pool were directly in line with her previous room. Fat-Joe Jesus should be standing a few metres to her right, but the spot he’d occupied a few minutes earlier was empty.
She looked up to her new room and tried to work out the angles. There was no doubt in her mind this was the right spot, but where had Fat-Joe gone?
Keira stepped down from the wooden boardwalk on to the sand and started towards the shoreline, glancing over her shoulder at the flow of people moving in both directions along the walkway.
The adrenaline rush was over: she was starting to feel nauseous.
She stopped and closed her eyes, taking a moment to bring her breathing under control and prevent another dizzy spell. When she opened them again, there he was standing on the corner. From there he could keep an eye on the front entrance to the hotel and the balcony at the same time.
With a properly weighted throwing knife Keira’s ‘sticking distance’ was around three metres. Over that span of flight the blade would make one full rotation and stick point first into the target. As she crossed the beach towards Fat-Joe she let the steak knife slip into the palm of her hand and flipped it so that the blade rested comfortably between her thumb and forefinger. Keira knew she could hit him anywhere on his body: the head being the easiest target to ensure a ‘stick’, but all the weight was in the handle. The trajectory of the knife would be unpredictable. If the butt struck first the knife would bounce off. Keira decided it would be better to get as close as possible and stab the knife into him, wound the son of a bitch enough to slow him down, then call the cops.
Keira circled round so that she could approach him from behind. She would drive the knife as deep as possible then continue moving past. Hopefully the element of surprise should give her enough time to get back to the safety of the hotel before he realised what had happened. Keira continued until she was past his right flank, then cut in towards the boardwalk.
She fell in behind a group of holidaymakers and started towards him.
The knuckles on her hand tightened around the handle, but just as she drew her arm back ready to strike, Fat-Joe turned to face her.
Keira stopped dead in her tracks. She was less than a metre from him, her eyes screwed shut, fighting against the intense, throbbing pain inside her head. Another wave of nausea had Keira reaching out, but there was nothing there, nothing to brace herself against. The knife slipped between her fingers and dropped to the ground, sticking point first into the boardwalk.
She was falling.
The last thing Keira saw was a large pair of hands reaching out towards her. The last thing she heard was Fat-Joe Jesus’s voice, ‘Mogwai lady. I’ve been looking for you.’
*
She became aware of a presence: someone nearby. Keira heard a shuffling sound, then felt her wrist being lifted and gently squeezed. When she opened her eyes there was a man she’d never seen before squatting beside her studying his watch while he took her pulse.
‘I’m hoping you’re a doctor.’
‘So am I,’ replied the man in heavily accented English.
Keira lifted her head and looked around. She was back on her balcony. For a brief instant she wondered if she’d imagined seeing Fat-Joe down on the boardwalk, then she spotted the steak knife resting on the glass table next to her. Sitting beside the knife was a tattered envelope: the one she’d handed over to Daud Pasha.
‘How did I get up here?’
‘Fat-Joe. You took sick down at the beach. He brought you here and called me.’
‘You’re a friend of his?’
‘Not friend! I help him out sometimes if he needs doctor.’
‘Is he inside?’ said Keira, tipping her head in the direction of the french doors.
‘He didn’t stick around.’
‘Ever heard of a guy called Daud Pasha?’
The medic nodded slowly. Keira waited for him to say something, but that was it; just the nod.
‘Are you doing that nod thing that means no?’
The guy shook his head. ‘There was a grand vizier called Daud Pasha. D’you mean that guy?’
‘No. This guy’s one of Fat-Joe’s acquaintances.’
‘I never heard of a Daud Pasha.’
The man started packing his stethoscope and notepad into a leather briefcase. ‘You’re good. If I was you, I’d take it easy for a bit. And try to eat something. You shouldn’t be taking these on an empty stomach.’ He held up the bottle of painkillers the hospital had given her.
‘How do you know I took them on an empty stomach?’
‘Experience.’
‘D’you know where I can get a hold of Fat-Joe?’
‘His number’s on the back of the envelope: said to give him a call.’
*
Keira placed the small tray of sandwiches, the whisky sour and the bowl of fries room service had just delivered on the balcony table and lifted the envelope that Fat-Joe had left. There was no doubt that it was the same one she’d handed to Daud Pasha two days earlier – the only difference being it was now splattered with what looked like tiny droplets of
dried blood. Keira peeled it open and raised her eyebrows: it was still full of euros.
She freed the bundle of notes from the envelope and counted them. All there! Not including the money that had been taken from the safe, but the exact amount she had handed over to Daud Pasha.
Keira swapped the cash for her sour sitting on the table and – using the straw – drained it in one.
She picked up the envelope again and, moving back inside, headed for the telephone by the bedside, flipped the envelope on to the bed and dialled the number written on the back. It was answered almost immediately.
‘Kush është ky?’ The voice was female, shouting to be heard over the music in the background.
‘I’m looking for Fat-Joe?’
The female spoke in English now, ‘Who is this?’
‘Is this Fat-Joe’s phone?’
The female turned away from the phone and shouted to someone in Albanian. It sounded like she was in a busy bar or nightclub. There was a muffled response in the background, then she was back.
‘You are Mogwai lady, yes?’
‘Yes. I wanted to speak with Fat-Joe, can I do that?’
‘You can come to Bar Fiktiv tomorrow night. Rruga Taulantia.’
‘I don’t want to meet him in a bar. I’d just like to speak to him on the phone, can you put him on?’
‘Fiktiv. Nine o’clock,’ repeated the girl, before hanging up.
Nine
The bar could have been anywhere in the world. The music was loud, the lighting too low and the air filled with the sweet scent of overpriced, cheap-smelling perfume. Below the NO SMOKING signs sat ashtrays full of cigarette butts. Keira spotted Fat-Joe’s table in the far corner and squeezed past the crush at the bar. A heavily made-up woman in her mid-thirties sat on a blue velvet bench seat next to Fat-Joe giving Keira the once-over as she approached. Keira figured it must have been her who had answered the telephone the night before.
Fat-Joe stood as Keira approached and edged his way round to pull a chair out for her. He was wearing the same clothes as he’d had on the day before. His tie had dark streaks of grease and the shirt was stained with salsa and other marks that were harder to identify. The jacket hung open, exposing a brown leather holster out of which protruded the solid, steel butt of his handgun.
‘This is Ardiana,’ he said, pushing Keira’s chair in for her as she sat.
Ardiana stayed seated, but extended her hand. Keira took up the offer and felt Ardiana grip her fingers tight, like she was squeezing a lemon. Up close Keira could see that the woman was at least ten years older than she’d thought – a slab of make-up doing a good job of hiding her true age from a distance.
‘You’re doing well from fall?’ asked Fat-Joe.
‘I’m doing well . . . Better, yes. Thank you.’
‘I’m speaking better English than Fatjo,’ said Ardiana.
She pronounced his name with a silent ‘t’ so that it sounded more like Fahyo. ‘He understands it more than he can speak it. I am his interpreter for the evening. You would like a drink?’ A smile at the end warmed what had so far been a wary, disinterested expression.
Ardiana and Fat-Joe were both on coffee, but it didn’t stop Keira ordering a beer.
Fat-Joe made a few hand gestures to someone behind the bar, then slumped against the padded-velvet seatback and smiled across at Keira.
‘Do your miming skills stretch as far as being able to ask for a straw?’ asked Keira.
Fat-Joe and Ardiana didn’t get it. They stared back at her with blank expressions.
‘You brought your gun?’ said Keira, moving on.
Fat-Joe didn’t have to look down: he knew where it was. ‘Always I have the gun, but is never pointed at you, so no worries.’
He spoke the next few sentences in Albanian, then paused as he waited for Ardiana to do her bit.
‘Fatjo wants to know what happened to your face?’
‘I was kind of hoping he would tell me.’
‘He’s asking if you got the little package.’
‘If he’s talking about the envelope full of cash, then yes I did,’ replied Keira, ‘but I’m a little confused as to why.’
‘Fatjo wants to help you find the boy. He is giving you the money back and hopes that you and he can start again. When he has found for you what you are looking for then you can pay him the money.’
‘Why only half? Why not give all of it back?’
A frown appeared on Fat-Joe’s face. He spoke to Ardiana out of the side of his mouth, all the while keeping his eyes on Keira.
‘He gave you everything there was,’ continued Ardiana. ‘He’s confused why you say it is only half.’
‘What about the money that was taken from my room the other night? The money in the safe – and my passport.’
A quizzical look spread across Fat-Joe’s face as he replied and Ardiana translated.
‘He doesn’t know what you are talking about.’
Keira had been watching Fat-Joe’s responses closely. Even though he was speaking in a language she couldn’t understand it was clear that he was telling the truth.
‘Okay, so you didn’t come to my room and take the rest of the money and my passport?’
‘Is correct,’ replied Fat-Joe.
‘So this envelope you’re giving me contains the money I gave to Pasha?’
‘Is correct, also yes.’
‘Where is he?’
At the mention of Pasha’s name Fat-Joe launched into a drawn-out speech, animated with more sweeping hand gestures.
‘You no longer have to worry about Mister Pasha,’ said Ardiana after he had finished. ‘He has left town. He lied about being paid any of the money at all. He told Fatjo you had not given him any money then tried to cut Fatjo out of the deal. So he paid for his deception. Fatjo would like to help you now and hopes that his giving the money back will help you to trust him. He is giving his besa to you.’
‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘S’like his word of honour.’
‘So neither Fat-Joe nor Daud Pasha broke into my hotel room the other night and did this to my face?’
Fat-Joe had caught the drift of what Keira was saying and shrugged his shoulders, pointing at himself with both hands. ‘Me! I hurt that you think it was me.’
‘What about Pasha?’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Wednesday evening.’
Fat-Joe was talking Albanian again, with Ardiana translating simultaneously.
‘Fatjo says that it could not have been Daud Pasha, because he had already left town by that point.’
‘Left town?’
‘Sure . . .’
Keira waited for more. When it didn’t come she asked, ‘Okay, where did he go?’
‘It was far away.’
‘I’d like to speak with him. D’you have a contact number?’
Fat-Joe leant across the table like he wanted to whisper something, then waited for Keira to do the same.
‘I can give you his number . . .’ he said, his voice just audible above the din. ‘But in hell there are no telephones.’
Keira’s beer arrived at the table along with another round of coffees and a bowl of salty snacks. The waiter placed the items on the table along with a small saucer on which sat the bill. Fat-Joe threw some notes on top of it and waved the guy away.
Keira caught the waiter’s arm. ‘Could you bring me a straw?’
The waiter shook his head and headed back to the bar, returning seconds later with it.
Keira waited until she’d poured her beer and taken a sip, before she said, ‘I came here to help a young boy in the hope that something good would come out of the tragedy surrounding his mother’s death. As much as I appreciate your offer of assistance – I already have someone helping me. What I wasn’t prepared for and what I don’t want to do is get involved in anything that might compromise that . . . and, more importantly, compromise me. As I see it, not only am I now in possession
of a piece of material evidence, namely an envelope splattered with blood, but I’m also party to some information regarding the possible disappearance and murder of someone I’ve been in contact with in the last few days. I’m booked on a flight first thing Sunday morning. I’d go sooner if I could, but a mild concussion and lack of travel documents mean that’s not going to happen, so I’m stuck here – in the shit – for the moment. I don’t need any more shit to happen during the remainder of my stay, so what I’m going to propose is this. I’d written off the money in the envelope. I’d be happy to give it and the piece of evidence – the envelope – back to you for your troubles. In return, all I ask is that we forget this conversation ever took place. You’re not my client. I’m not your lawyer. There’s no way of passing this off as lawyer–client privilege. If you’re telling me what I think you’re telling me then I should really head to the nearest police station and report everything I’ve just heard . . . but . . . I don’t think that’s in anyone’s best interest.’ Keira took the envelope from her shoulder bag and placed it on the table in front of Fat-Joe. ‘Did you get what I just said? I don’t want any more shit.’
Fat-Joe stared down at it for a moment then turned to Ardiana, as though it was down to her to make the next move.
After a few moments Ardiana reached across, picked up the envelope and emptied it of the bills. She tucked the money into the front pocket of her jeans then slid the empty envelope across to Keira, saying, ‘We’ll keep the cash, you keep the evidence as security. When we find the boy you can pay us the rest of the money . . . the other half, then you can return the envelope to us.’
‘Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,’ replied Keira. ‘I don’t want your help.’
‘You do, but you just don’t know it yet. Pick up the envelope and put it in your purse. If anything goes wrong you have something you can use against us. This way we can trust each other, I think.’
Keira stared back at Ardiana for a moment, then fished a throwaway lighter and soft pack of Marlboro from her bag. She tapped out a cigarette before offering them around, but both Ardiana and Fat-Joe refused. Keira sparked the wheel and lifted the small blue flame to the tip of her cigarette. The swelling around her mouth made it difficult to keep the tip clamped between her lips: the only place where they met was still raw and painful.
Walk in Silence Page 5